


"are you real?"

by whoshatter



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Crying, Cuddling & Snuggling, Cute, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining, My First Fanfic, No Smut, One Shot, Pining, Short One Shot, am i crying? ofc not lmao, are we about to kiss rn?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-20
Updated: 2020-11-20
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:36:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27644911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whoshatter/pseuds/whoshatter
Summary: // TRIGGER WARNING //suicidal ideation“Are you real?” George asks although he sounds heartbroken and now that he looks back at this dream in particular, he looks heartbroken too, at the thought that this isn’t real, that he isn't real.“Of course,”... "are you?"ORGeorge thinks it's about time to jump but a certain someone seems to have had the same idea
Relationships: Clay | Dream & GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 118





	"are you real?"

**Author's Note:**

> this is my first fanfic. don't hate me, please. also thanks to rotero for being a real one and helping proofread this garbage.

The soft sound of the water droplets falling from the tall ceiling to dissipate onto the rough floor, making small puddles that can barely hold a reflection. George doesn’t want to see his reflection anyway.

He walks up the rough concrete stairwell taking in the grey damp walls with bright citrus colored arrows pointing to each door. It’s humid and dim and smells faintly sour. Climbing and climbing. One foot passes the other like a rhythmic tune: it makes him sleepy. Sleeping was always a comfort, dreaming especially, where anything could happen. Some dreams were terrifying and bleak, some soft and dizzying.

\--

For a moment he’s back there, those dizzy dreams. 

“Why don’t we take a seat?” The person beside him uttered. And so he did, he sat down on the grey morning dew-soaked grass not even thinking about how his pants would be soaked afterward. The other sat down too, down on the grass. And as Dream - wait. Dream, was that his name? - played with a flower in his grasp he whispered, “Do you know what flower this is?”

“No.”

“It’s a carnation. People used to think they were disdainful. I can’t see it. You know... how they could think that.” Dream spoke softly, picking the delicate creature from the earth to then twirl in his hand. Several long moments passed after that, neither speaking. It was a peaceful silence though, one that they didn’t want to ever end.

Suddenly he sat up swiftly moving to kneel towards George, on one leg, and held out the flower to him. It was a pretty flower, bright yellow. It was the only object of colour in the field. Well, wait, that wasn’t true. The other’s eyes were yellow too, shining with sugar and passion. “For you.” Is all he said.

George chuckled, amused yet with the tingle of butterflies swarming his stomach, “does this mean you hate me? That you _disdain_ me?” The reaction from the other was priceless, eyes wide in surprise. 

“What? Do I hate you? Maybe I’ll just keep this to myself then.” Now it was Dream’s turn to chuckle as the other still made a grabbing motion with his hands to take the carnation into his possession anyway.

There was another long silence as they both lay back down on the grass and meekly, as quiet as a mouse Dream muttered, “of course not.”

“‘Of course not’, what?” George spoke. Although knowing what the other had meant he still wanted to hear him say it.

“Of course I don't hate you. How could I ever hate you?” His face was darker than normal and although he couldn’t see the red on his cheeks he knew Dream was blushing. George huffed softly at how sweet it was, his smile, how dizzy it was making him. They must have spent a long time there, together.

\--

He’ll be there soon, there's nothing to fear. Is there?

It seems surreal, all this. Almost out of body-like, weightless, watching himself from above. It’s strangely lonely like he was the only one to live in these moments. Lonely. It’s not a new feeling.

The soft hum of an ear-worm fades in and out of his mind, melancholy chorus ending as he arrives at the sleek double doors to the roof comes into view. They’re heavy, the doors.

\--

Another grey dream appears in his mind, this time in the vintage, victorian style living room he visited in these sugar-sweet dreams. Dream is there too, as always. It’s comforting, him always being there in these moments. 

Dream is fiddling with a mahogany record player: he’s always had trouble setting it up. George looks over to him fondly with a dreamy look and warm smile. After a still minute or two, the only sounds being muted record scratches and frustrated grunts, a chuckle gives George away from his silent observations. At this, the other whips around with a pout and stands still for a moment before gesturing to the record player.

With a hum George stalks over and gently takes the hands of the other into his own, guiding them to put on the record correctly. It’s become routine at this point, whenever they meet in this room, for him to help guide the other’s hands to place the record. George wonders if he’s pretending to not know so they might hold hands.

The disc starts spinning and a song scratches to life. He recognizes this one but can’t seem to remember the name. Still grasping Dream’s hand he leads them to the embroidered velvet couch and sits down patting the spot next to him softly as to say ‘sit with me, won’t you?’. And so he does. Dream wraps his arm around him and they snuggle up to each other.

It’s so silent you could hear a pin drop other than the fact the familiar vinyl was still playing its jazzy melody. Dream starts to hum along with the lyrics and George looks to his shoulder to see the other’s closed eyes and a soft grin placed gently upon his face. Warmth and admiration flood his chest and George thinks, ‘this is marvelous.’ And with the dizzy feeling in his love-struck heart, he closes his eyes and dozes off.

\--

Will he miss the feeling of weight holding him to the ground? He’s reached the roof now. It's almost time. 

He pushes the double doors open with a heave and feels as cold and damp midnight air shakes him awake with a start. The walk to the edge is slow and grueling and just as he’s about to stub his toe on the edge-guard he halts; did he stop from hesitance or determination? With one swift movement, his hands delicately move to remove his shoes- a pair of grey sneakers. Grey. He swore he could see the colours of the world just a second ago, but now the world’s paint seems to have been washed away.

Will he miss the feeling of the cold air on his skin? This was his favorite time of day after all when you could gaze upon the vast city. Skyscrapers towering over ant-like cars, their sleek glass walls reflecting the headlights. From here the songs of the wind sing forcefully, clashing against his ears.

He steadies himself as he hops onto his left foot this time and removes the right shoe, carefully untying the laces and setting it down precisely. 

Will he miss the lights of the city's nightlife? Will he miss how the vast and inky sky settles upon the streets? He doesn't know if he can miss anything anymore. Except him.

Lining his shoes up straight and against the low walled edge of the structure, he breathes in, and out. In, and out. He has to swallow a lump in his throat and bat his eyes to keep the sting of tears from intruding, he can’t cry right now. But now he's ready and once he lifts his feet to climb the low solid wall he hears a striking voice. Low and like a symphony.

"So, you’ve had the same idea, huh?" George recognizes this voice like he only heard its melodic hum yesterday. Slowly turning around, too tired to turn fully, he sees him.

\--

“Are you real?” George asks although he sounds heartbroken and now that he looks back at this dream in particular, he looks heartbroken too, at the thought that this isn’t real, that he isn't real.

“Of course,” Dream responds truthfully, “are you?” At this response they stare into each other’s eyes, one pair clouded with fear and the other shining with tenderness, the kind of tenderness which can only be displayed when you really, truly love someone. 

\--

“Dream? You're... you're real?” George is dumbstruck looking at the figure he’d been seeing in his dreams for years. His face is suddenly warmer, but maybe that’s because he’s prettier than he’s ever seen him and George can't help but feel his ears redden. The moonlight bounces off the crevices of his face and his breath is visible in the cold night’s air.

“George? I... I don’t know now... are you?” He says with a tone that drips honey and eyes soft with recognition. His mouth is slightly parted in the revelation that yes, He’s real. Both of them.

It had to have lasted forever, this silence that they’re stuck in. It’s a different silence than from within their dreams. It’s breathless and still like waiting up all night for Christmas day or how it feels to wake at 4 am and stare at the ceiling. 

A hand reaches out before George can process it. His hand. At that moment George recognizes he’s still standing on the edge of the roof, so close to the edge, and upon realizing it he softly takes Dream’s hand and steps down. It feels like a prince helping his partner off their carriage and if you looked closely it might have been just that. Dream’s eyes are still yellow, like that day in the field and George doesn’t think there’s anything else in this world that could be as charming.

They hold hands again, like that day in the sitting room, next to the record player. And for a moment, they’ve forgotten what they came here to do and they sit down. They sit down on the dew-soaked concrete and look at each other and think. 

‘Wow, this is marvelous.’ And then they cry.


End file.
